


written / spoken

by LeafiaPaige



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America and Latvia are mentioned, Cold War, Control, Control Issues, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Estonia shows up for five seconds, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), I don't know how to write tags, I'm Sorry, Lithuania has a diary, Lithuania has a stammer, Lithuania is Russia's servant, Lithuania needs a hug, My First AO3 Post, POV Russia (Hetalia), POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Russia doesn't recognise it as abuse, but mildly written, but very specifically, in this house we stan Lithuania, one-sided Russia/Lithuania, please be kind to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafiaPaige/pseuds/LeafiaPaige
Summary: Words have power.Silence has power.If one person is speaking and the other is not, who is the one in power?--Lithuania had spoken to him in coherent sentences only a few times. The last instance had been when the two had been planting sunflowers together in the back yard over a year ago. Even in that moment, he hadn’t said much, but he had talked Ivan through the planting process step-by-step, in such a gentle and quiet voice that Ivan had found himself listening to the sound of it more than the words being spoken. Somehow, the texture and intonation enticed him.And he wanted more than anything to hear it again.
Relationships: Lithuania & Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 10





	written / spoken

_Words have power._

_Silence has power._

_If one person is speaking and the other is not, who is the one in power?_

* * *

“Mr. Lithuania.”

The brunet’s head jerked upward at the voice, and his arm moved to cover his book. Russia’s ever-present smile widened. The expression on his servant’s face was almost comical, his eyes dilated and his mouth slightly open. He watched quietly as the young man swallowed and attempted to respond a few times, eventually giving up and just nodding to show he was listening.

Russia relished in the man’s discomfort for a moment longer before he spoke: “Mr. Latvia dropped fertilizer in the back hallway.” He lifted his hand and eyed it boredly while he picked at the invisible dirt beneath its fingernails. Without looking at the Baltic state, he went on, “I have given out his punishment, but I am afraid that he will be unable to clean the mess himself,” _because he’s never able to clean anything without breaking_ something _in the process_. Any other country that might have come across the scene might have suspected abuse, but Russia rarely shed the blood of his lovely subordinates. Rarely. There _had_ been those times when one had been particularly... _spiteful_...

Lithuania swallowed again, and opened his mouth, and all that came out was a wild stammer. His mouth closed, and he nodded again before setting down his pen and darting off.

And wasn’t it so careless of him to leave his personal possessions in the kitchen, where anyone could take them?

Grinning, Russia walked over to the table and settled into the chair that Lithuania had just left. The book had been left open, even! He scanned the page of neat stencil handwriting.

_I remembered something when I awoke this morning. It was from a long time ago, and I wonder if I hadn’t dreamt of it last night. That day was cold, very cold, colder than even the day that Russia took me—and I remind myself again to thank him for that—_

Eyebrows raised, Russia reread the sentence. _Thank_ him? Lithuania had been distraught, and unable to sleep for days afterward.

_—and I had taken time for myself, as myself. I was very small then, very young. I had a dog with me, one of mine, and for my life I can’t remember his name, or even if it was a he. But he was warm, and he kept my right hand warm as I rested it on his back. We were walking across a bridge, and then I saw someone I had never seen before. He was a small state, but larger than me, older. For some reason, his hat stood out to me, so tall and so cute above his flushed face._

Ivan frowned. That night...he knew it well himself. The night he had first met, and first wanted, the smaller nation.

_I know the scene only in images and the sound of my dog’s barking. But I remember him telling me that, when he was a bigger and stronger nation, he would become my friend._

_I wonder why it was so appealing to me, to be his friend. It might have been because he seemed so precious, so defenseless. And I had seen his hands, blistered and stained with dirt. He must have been worked very hard, even as such a young nation. Maybe that was why. I wanted to help him. But he refused my help._

_Now, he works me so hard that I wonder if he’s even the same person._

Ivan shook his head, a small smile on his face. That poor nation didn’t understand how the world worked, did he?

But still... Lithuania had a quite a way with words, when writing, at least. Ivan rested his cheek in his palm, lips twisted in thought.

Lithuania had spoken to him in coherent sentences only a few times. The last instance had been when the two had been planting sunflowers together in the back yard over a year ago. Even in that moment, he hadn’t said much, but he had talked Ivan through the planting process step-by-step, in such a gentle and quiet voice that Ivan had found himself listening to the sound of it more than the words being spoken. Somehow, the texture and intonation enticed him.

And he wanted more than anything to hear it again.

It surprised him when he realised this. Snorting, he shook his head. His boss would be angry if he found out.

“M-M-M—”

As the familiar stutter reached his ears, Russia glanced up at Lithuania, his head tilted slightly to the right and his smile stuck in place. “You are finished cleaning, da?”

The Baltic state nodded instinctively, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. “W-w-why...w-what...” He raised his arm out in front of him shakily as he pointed at the book. “W-what are y-you d-d-doing?” he finally yelled, his cheeks flushed.

“You left this for me to read, da?” Russia laughed, causing Lithuania to flinch. “Oh, and Mr. Lithuania,” he added as the brunet shook his head in protest, “what was it, exactly, that you wanted to thank me for?”

Silence. Russia waited while his servant didn’t bother to respond, save the stiffening of his body and face. Then, the man glared— _glared_! _—_ at him, snatched the book from Russia’s grip, and ran from the room.

Again, Russia laughed. He had gotten a portion of what he wanted, and had angered his most submissive servant in the process. He felt lightheaded.

He wanted to hear more.

After composing himself, Ivan walked over to the stairs and called up them: “Mr. Lithuania!” Humming, he tapped his fingers on the stairwell until the still-angry man showed himself at the top of the stairs. “I have something for you to do.”

Lithuania pursed his lips and slowly made his way down the stairs. “W-what?” Even upset, he couldn’t seem to keep his words from breaking. Ivan grinned. How cute!

_Cute?_

“That journal you have, it is very nice.” Lithuania’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms. “Especially the words inside of it.” His stare grew harder. “Whenever you want to speak to me, you will write in your journal, da?” Startled, his eyes widened. “Then you can tell me whatever you want.”

“M-M-Mr. R-Russia...” Lithuania swallowed. “R-re...I-I mean...w-why?

It actually sounded like it was painful for him to talk. For a moment, Ivan felt a sting of pity—

_Russia never feels pity._

“Because I told you to,” he answered tightly. Russia wouldn’t—shouldn’t?—let his emotions show through the order.

Once again, Lithuania was unable to say anything in return, so he nodded and left.

* * *

A timid tap on the door broke Russia’s concentration and he sighed. He got up from his chair and walked over to said door just as a piece of paper slid beneath the crack. Perking up slightly, Ivan bent over, picked up the note, and straightened, unfolding it once, twice, thrice, another time. He skipped over the list of questions and requests written over the past few weeks to a line near the end, where he found, in shaky, uncertain-looking writing:

_May I have dinner with America tomorrow?_

Fighting the irritation that came with even seeing the nation’s name—they were at war, after all; a “cold” war, but a war all the same; they disagreed about everything and “hated” pretty much everything about the other, as nations and as people; and there was that one time years ago when America had had custody over Lithuania and Ivan could only visit on certain occasions, and he honestly had no idea what kind of relationship they had; not that it mattered, but it bothered him just how often they still wanted to see each other, especially since Lithuania was _his_ now—Russia frowned at the paper, and unlocked his door without lifting his eyes from the note.

“Mr. Lithuania.”

The door opened outward to the hallway slowly, and Lithuania peeked in cautiously. Russia motioned to him, and he quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him, head bowed.

“Mr. Lithuania,” he repeated. “What does it mean to be my territory?”

Stammering as usual, twisting his fingers together, Lithuania turned his face away and stared at a patch of floor. To nowhere, it seemed, but a place without a trace of anyone. “M-M-M-Mr. R-Russia, it m-m-means…” He shifted his feet. “Th-that I do what you w-want me to…M-M-Mr. Russia…?” It ended in a small squeak.

Ivan smiled. While it could sometimes be hard to make out words, he loved to hear the tone of Lithuania’s voice. Beneath the shaking and the stuttering, there was an intellectual flow, somewhere. Ivan wondered if he would hear the nation’s true voice someday, but knew it was likely impossible, since their arrangement was one of fear.

“That means that you do what I say, da?” He knew he was being redundant, but dragging out the conversation caused the younger man to speak more. _No, I’m doing because I’m enjoying myself._ “Because _I win_.” The younger nation flinched, and Russia smirked. The words still frightened him. _Good_.

“I-I…y-yes, M-Mr. Russia. I understand…” Lithuania brought his gaze up for the first time since entering the office, his green eyes staring straight into Russia’s. His courage was admirable, and only lasted a few seconds before he bowed his head again and gripped the doorknob. “I…I-I'll just…leave now… Th-thank you for your c-considera-ation, M-Mr. Russia…”

The way he stumbled halfway through the word made Ivan raise a hand to stop him from backing out of the room. The hand at his side felt numb. He must have pressed his fingers to his palm without noticing. How strange. Carefully, he spread out his fingers again, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face. For some reason, he couldn’t speak. Even without opening his mouth, he knew his throat was incapable of letting out air. But he knew he had to. He could only hear the voice if he spoke.

“Mr. Lithuania.” For some reason, it seemed appropriate to repeat the name multiple times while they spoke, as if to remind himself who he was speaking to when he had never forgotten, or to bring Toris’s attention back to him when it had never left. “I did not give you my order. You merely _assumed_ what I would command. Maybe I should reconsider, da?”

Toris shook his head. “N-no, M-M-Mr. Russia…” Eyes widening, he realised his mistake and quickly amended, “I-I mean, w-whatever you decide, M-Mr. Russia…”

“Da.” Ivan’s usual smile slipped back into place. “Whatever I decide.” A space separated each word from the others. “You will enjoy your time with Mr. America, da?”

“Y-yes, I…” Realising what his master had said, Toris’s forehead creased and he looked up at him. “I-I…what?”

_What are you doing?_ Ivan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Toris flinched again, looking small and frail against the wooden door. “This is an order,” he said carefully, for his own sake. “You will speak as Toris and Alfred, not as Lithuania and America. And if you must speak of me, it will be as Ivan. Understood?” _Stop it. You are Russia. Be Russia._ “I do not want…talk of nations and politics.” _Russia!_ “Now get out of my sight,” he spat.

Lithuania stammered something as he nodded and darted out of the room. Ivan locked the door and ground his teeth together, his hands shaking, his fingers fighting to curl into fists. His entire body shuddered. He wanted to punch a hole through the door. He wanted to slap himself. Anything to get himself back in check.

“You are Russia,” he repeated under his breath.

* * *

Russia didn’t care, really, what Toris and Alfred talked about. He didn’t even leave his room when the younger nation got home. He went over military strategies with his boss and General Winter, filled out confidential paperwork, and kept his mind strictly on business.

A jetlagged nation brought him dinner, the smallest of smiles on his lips as he placed it on his master’s desk. “I brought back some cranberries, sir,” Toris said, glancing over. “I thought you might like them.”

Something like pleasure and annoyance warmed and froze Ivan’s bloodstream, back and forth. Toris was speaking. He was _smiling_. How long had Ivan wished for that? Toris’s voice was…stunning. Beautiful. Ivan couldn’t find the right word for it. It was…perfect.

But _Alfred_ made it happen.

Once again, Ivan’s hands began to shake, and he couldn’t figure out what to do with them. The impulse manifested in him swiping the plate off of his desk, splattering cranberries across Toris’s blazer and pants. The younger nation stepped back in shock, his hands rising to his mouth, his eyes wide. Ivan slammed his hands on the desk and stood, storming out of the room. Pushing aside a curious Latvia, he grabbed his jacket from the coat hanger and pulled it on, leaving the house and entering the cold snowy outdoors.

Ivan breathed in and out slowly, letting the chill knock the dizziness from his mind. From time to time, all he could do was walk. Many countries assumed that he drowned his worries in vodka, but that was only when the cold stopped working. He let out a low sigh. For the time being, he would be fine.

Being partly human was troublesome. The human portion had emotions that were not Russia’s, and that, therefore, he couldn’t—shouldn’t?—pursue, or even slightly entertain. And yet, those emotions were just as powerful, if not sometimes moreso, than his duties as a state. From time to time, he merely had to acknowledge those emotions and let them fade away. It was never good to dwell on them.

Still…even as Russia, he should not have felt so much disdain for America that he wasted perfectly good food. He thought of his people, hungry and cold in the midst of this war.

Russia was too human. Even once he returned home from his hours-long walk, his mind had not rid itself of Toris’s voice. It was as if for the first time in years, he had heard music.

* * *

In his haste, Russia hadn’t put on boots, and consequently ruined a pair of shoes. He slid off the waterlogged leather and left them on the front porch—he’d get Estonia to replace them—and entered his home once more. His head hadn’t quite cleared, but he was cold, and his stomach was beginning to complain. He started toward the kitchen. Perhaps once he’d satisfied his basic needs, he would be calmer.

Toris’s fingers were dripping red.

With a startled sound, Ivan hurried forward, eyes honing in on the knife in Toris’s hand. The younger nation looked over at him in surprise and dropped the knife on the counter, holding his hands up defensively, eyes wide. “M-M-Mr. Russia?” he asked, taking a step back. “I-I-I didn’t r-realise you were h-home. I-I just w-wanted to—”

Ivan grabbed Toris’s wrist and pulled his hand close, studying it. Time seemed to stop as realisation spread through him... “Cranberries?” he asked, almost dumbly. Toris was much too alarmed to respond, his mouth floundering for words and his face growing as red as the juice on his hands. Of course it wasn’t blood. Toris was flawless in the kitchen, never cutting his fingers even when startled and terrified out of his wits.

Why was Toris’s face so red, and why did Ivan suddenly want to lick his servant’s fingers clean?

Ivan dropped Toris’s wrist and turned to the cranberries, taking one and silently popping it into his mouth. It definitely wasn’t good enough to warrant his desire, but at least it distracted him and let him get his emotions in check. After swallowing, he faced Toris, whose cheeks had paled considerably.

“Mr. Lithuania.” He continued to stare, his brows somewhat furrowed, his brain not quite able to keep up with his thoughts. He breathed in slowly and breathed out even more slowly. A short refocusing of his gaze showed that the younger nation had moved just slightly forward, his hand inching outward, his eyes staring upward.

For once, Ivan was the one who couldn’t speak.

“…Would…w-would you like some dinner, M-Mr. Russia?” the Baltic state asked timidly, taking a step backward as if to turn and prepare it. “A-and some vodka?”

_You are Russia_.

His breath hitched.

“…Da.”

* * *

Time healed most wounds, but seemed only to aggravate his. Each passing day left Ivan more speechless than the day before, to the point where, one day, with his voice rusty and guttural from disuse, he said two words: “Mr. Lithuania.”

And then, when the younger nation looked up at his master, his arm covering his journal, his eyes startled but softly curling at the sides in concern, Ivan’s throat constricted and he could not utter another sound.

Toris began to bring cough medicine with Ivan’s dinner, and glanced at him more often than usual—or perhaps Ivan was only just beginning to notice? The older nation did nothing to acknowledge his servants. He gave them no new orders. He didn’t even punish Latvia.

Lethargic. That was it. It wasn’t depression, no, he would not allow depression, and depression could be drunk away. Lethargy could not.

He never acknowledged Toris, but he always listened when he spoke.

Toris had become less nervous when he’d realised that his master wouldn’t lash out at him. He’d begun to speak more fluidly, saying little things here and there to himself and to Ivan and to the dish he was setting on the desk, the desk that was covered in paperwork, paperwork that he slid into his arms and took with him to his room and slid under the office door before going to bed. Every sentence was soft and light, quiet, not timid, kind. Once, he laughed, a quick, breathy sound that escaped his lips and that he quickly stopped with those same lips, staring at Ivan with wide-eyed fear before his eyes curled downward once more and he continued to speak, filling up the always-uncomfortable silence and yet seeming to feel comforted by doing so.

Ivan wondered why he had never noticed how beautiful Toris was, and he wondered why he couldn’t stop thinking about it and just become Russia again.

Each day, with lessening intensity, he repeated it to himself: _I am Russia_. Each day, he wondered why he tried to force himself, and he wondered why he couldn’t just be normal again.

* * *

It was before breakfast, before Toris had even started making it. He was sitting at the table writing in his journal, his head bowed over the pages. His eyes were just barely noticeable through his hair. Ivan took a moment to take in the sight, feeling nothing but knowing he wanted to stare.

Toris looked up as his master approached, covering his journal with his arm. “Mr. Russia?” he murmured. Ivan let himself be immersed in those eyes filled with apprehension and concern, just for a few seconds. Then, he held out a slip of folded paper.

Confused, Toris accepted the paper and unfolded it.

And dropped it like it burned.

For a long time, the two men stared at each other, neither attempting to speak. The younger man’s eyes were wide but otherwise unreadable. His gaze lowered to the note on the ground, then back at Ivan. He nodded, just enough that his master could see. It was stiff and hesitant, but it was enough.

Like the note, Ivan fell to the ground, fists curled on his knees. It was the closest he had ever been to tears—he was not able to cry, not the way others could. His eyes stared downward, unseeing.

“Toris,” he said, his voice rough and thick. He barely registered the man’s surprise. “If Ivan dies, does Russia die?” He shook his head, brow furrowed. “If Russia dies, what happens to Ivan?” He shook his head again, almost annoyed. “Can Russia and Ivan be different?”

His words were met with silence.

As time passed, pressure built beneath his eyes. His shoulders shook; his arms threatened to buckle. He struggled to breathe, the effort becoming a sob. The sound made him flinch. He shook his head roughly. Another strangled sound left his throat.

Despite the lack of tears, he was crying. It was uncontrollable. It was loud.

It was pathetic.

A soft hand touched his own. Its thumb rubbed soothing circles. There was no hesitation.

Toris was on his knees in front of Ivan, head somewhat bowed, eyes half-lidded. Gently, he worked his fingers around Ivan’s palm until it relaxed, uncurling heavily. Toris held it in both hands. The cool fingertips reminded Ivan that he could feel.

“It’s difficult, sometimes.” Ivan flinched. He glanced up to see the smallest, saddest smile he had ever seen, directed not at him but at his hand. “You lose balance. You know about yourself, how you exist, but you forget. You become too Ivan or too Russia and you can’t remember what the other is like. Everything you think, everything you do, feels wrong.

“But you always find yourself again. Because even though Ivan and Russia are two different spirits, two different ways of thinking, you are still the same person. If one is unable to think, then, eventually, neither of them will. Russia gets tired of being in charge; Ivan gets tired of being in reserve. At some point, they have to switch.”

Ivan shook his head slowly, eyes closed. That wasn’t right. He needed to separate the two, not… Another sob tore his throat. His head and back bowed further. He couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to slip his hand from Toris’s, but the other man’s grip tightened. They fought briefly for control, but soon Ivan’s arm grew weak and he let Toris win.

The younger nation continued to stroke Ivan’s hand. He murmured something that reached Ivan’s ears but didn’t mean anything to him, a flow of words and music that urged his chest to rest and his heart to slow.

When his fit was over, he was able to listen.

“We’re expected to always be our country,” Toris said. He was meeting Ivan’s gaze. “But if we deny our true selves, we’ll fall. And we won’t always have someone to pick us back up.” The younger man touched Ivan’s shoulder. “It’s my nature— _Toris’s_ nature—to help someone who has fallen. Lithuania is in the back of my mind, chastising me for assisting the person who enslaved us. But _I_ can’t ignore someone in so much pain.”

Toris tilted his head downward just slightly. Just enough to add intensity to his words. “You have been doing what Russia wants. What does _Ivan_ want?”

Ivan swallowed. Toris was close. Too close. Not close enough. He licked his lips. “Ivan...” He trailed off, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what Ivan wants. I haven’t.”

Toris squeezed his hand. “Ever?” he murmured.

Ivan shrugged. “Maybe.” He exhaled unsteadily. “I think that Ivan wants to hear your voice. To be able to speak with you. Without you...” Inhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. Stared directly into Toris’s. “Russia wants you to fear him. Ivan wants to be able to make you happy. I cannot do both.”

“Ivan...” If he could cry, Toris saying his name would have brought tears to his eyes.

* * *

The two men sat on the kitchen floor for what might have been hours and might have been days. Ivan let himself exist in the strange halfway state of selves, flitting between his emotions, examining who they belonged to. He talked, sometimes. When he did, Toris helped guide him.

“I’ve been under the control of so many nations,” Toris said at one point. He shrugged one shoulder with a grimace. “At some point, I got used to separating myself from Lithuania. It was the only way I could cope.”

“Is that why you wanted to thank me?” Ivan asked, leaning against the wall. “For taking you from Poland?”

Toris snickered. “He was a bastard,” he said. “Still is.” His smile was strangely fond despite that. Ivan’s heart twisted and he looked away.

Ivan knew little about love and affection. But he was beginning to wonder.

Eventually, he felt calm enough, _alive_ enough, to pick himself up. “It is evening,” he commented, glancing outside. “We should sleep.” After a moment’s hesitation, he cautiously held out a hand. Toris’ face brightened; he took it, letting Ivan help him to his feet. When he tried to slip his hand away, Ivan tightened his grip.

Toris looked at him with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Ivan,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

Ivan stared at his hand, forced his thumb and fingers to loosen. He made a soft sound of acknowledgment.

As he moved to leave the room, he caught sight of the abandoned slip of paper. He bent down and picked it up, running it thoughtfully between his fingers. Turning toward Lithuania, he held it out and said, “Burn this for me, da?”

Smiling, Lithuania took it. “Of course, Mr. Russia.”

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly want this to stand on its own, but I do want to mention that I haven't really been involved with Hetalia since about 2014. This story just wouldn't let me set it free, and even now, I'm having trouble posting it. I picked at it over the years, making changes here and there, updating my style, adding and forgetting things. A lot of personal baggage is associated with this piece, and it's hard for me to believe that it's finally finished.
> 
> This story has gone through a lot of changes over the years, but the biggest is that, in the end, Lithuania says no.


End file.
